The Seven Heirlooms of Harlem
The trumpet solo ended in a cascade of blue notes, and James Washington closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. The Savoy Ballroom was packed—shoes tapping, bodies swaying, laughter rising above the clatter of glasses. He sat in the back corner with a coffee that had gone cold an hour ago, watching the dancers the way he watched patients: trying to read something in the movement that...
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